


Don't fuck with the fengshui

by obbel



Category: Latin American Celebrities RPF, Reggaetón Music RPF
Genre: AU, Explicit Sexual Content, Interior Decorating, M/M, Reggaetón RPF - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-02
Updated: 2020-08-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:41:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25669855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/obbel/pseuds/obbel
Summary: Interior designer/hot mess PWP.
Relationships: J Balvin/Maluma
Kudos: 9





	Don't fuck with the fengshui

“Nicole, I really don’t need your help―” Balvin starts, but he’s cut off.

“No,” Nicole says. “You need professional help.”

Balvin rolls his eyes and tries to continue making a case for himself, but Nicole is relentless.

“I already made an appointment and paid the deposit. It’s done. The interior designer will be here tomorrow at nine.”

Balvin sighs, and instead of graciously accepting victory, Nicole hammers her point home.

“Look at this,” she says, jabbing her finger viciously at the piles of stuff littering Balvin’s new house. “How do you live like this?”

“I just moved in,” he protests, but it’s a lost cause.

Nicole clicks her tongue at him, and points, violently, again, at his couch, asking, “is this from Ikea?”

“There’s nothing wrong with Ikea!”

“You’re dodging the question.”

“Could be?” he shrugs. “I don’t actually know. I got it from Sky. I think he, uh, found it...” he trails off unconvincingly.

He rubs a hand over the side of his head, grimacing as the words leave his mouth. He glances at the offending couch again, and notices that it has a couple suspicious stains and some scratches on the back. Maybe Nicole has a point.

“I’m all for upcycling. But you are thirty-five years old. You have a personal assistant.” She gestures at herself. “Your home should be your refuge from the world, your tranquil space. The place where you go to refresh your energy.”

She sounds like she’s quoting someone else, but Balvin still perks up at the word “energy.”

“This guy comes highly recommended,” she continues. “Please let him in when he arrives tomorrow.”

“I wasn’t going to lock him out,” he mutters. “Probably.”

Nicole fixes him with a disapproving look.

“Nine o’clock,” she says, pointing at her watchless wrist and then poking him in the chest.

“Ouch,” says Balvin.

―

Balvin notices two things when the interior designer shows up the next day: one, he arrived early, and two, he’s really fucking hot.

“Good morning,” the interior designer says, standing in Balvin’s doorway.

He’s wearing dress pants and a button-up shirt. There are more buttons undone than strictly necessary, Balvin thinks. He’s also carrying a briefcase. Balvin regrets the fact that he didn’t put on something nicer, but who dresses up for their interior designer? Maybe everyone does. He doesn’t know. He’s never done this before.

“Jose?”

Balvin nods, pulling the hood of his sweatshirt off his head. He says “good morning,” and lets the designer inside because he promised Nicole he would. And also because _hot._

The interior designer takes stock of Balvin’s living room, and Balvin fights the urge to defend the ― he wouldn’t call them squalid, but definitely unorganized ― conditions of his home. The designer is very professional, though. He clears a space on the coffee table and sets his briefcase down, then pulls out a tablet and a business card. He hands the card to Balvin, and Balvin looks at it while the designer starts tapping on the tablet with a stylus.

The card is heavy, glossy, and obnoxiously minimalist. It says m a l u m a on one side and nothing else.

“Maluma?” Balvin asks, and the designer looks up from his tablet.

“Nicole told me you’d like help redecorating,” Maluma, maybe, says, and Balvin nods. “Great!”

He sounds so enthusiastic that Balvin can’t help but to smile back at him.

“Great,” he echoes.

They sit down on Balvin’s Ikea couch. Balvin glances at the corners surreptitiously to see if any tags are sticking out to betray him.

“I don’t really do redecoration much anymore,” Maluma says to him. “But for you, I’m making an exception.”

He winks, and Balvin feels his heartbeat speed up. He doesn’t know how to react to that, so he crosses and uncrosses his legs, almost hitting Maluma with his foot. He wishes his Ikea couch was bigger. They’re very close to each other.

“Oh?” he asks, realizing that is the kind of statement that warrants a response. “What do you do now?”

“Mostly space planning, you know, how people move in and out of rooms.”

Balvin nods, although he really doesn’t know. It’s more of an automatic response, something to cover his actual thoughts. There’s nothing sexy about “space planning,” but somehow the way Maluma talks about “people” and “movement” makes him think of what kind of movements he’d like to be doing with Maluma, in or out of any room in the house.

He clears his throat, trying to get himself together. Maluma looks over at him and smiles. He does his best to smile back.

“Did you have anything particular in mind for this space?” Maluma asks him.

“Uh,” he says. “No?”

“That’s great, actually. I like to be in control.”

With that, Maluma stands up, saying something about how he’d like a tour of the house, and Balvin makes him go first, even though that makes no sense, just to hide how flustered he is.

—

“Nicole!” Balvin hisses into the phone. “You have to find a new designer! I can’t work with this guy.”

He’s hiding from Maluma in his own house. They went through all the rooms while Maluma talked about things like “reductive design elements” and “formal simplicity” and Balvin tried to act like a regular person in total control of his emotions. He thinks he was semi-successful, based on the fact that Maluma didn’t run for the hills, but that might just be professional courtesy.  
  
Balvin doesn’t know what’s come over him. Despite years of meditation and therapy, Maluma has him behaving like a teenager with a crush. Something about him makes Balvin tongue-tied, and basic social tasks like small talk elude him. The best he could do was a terrible joke about how his interior design skills come down to knowing how far away from the couch to put the coffee table so he can rest his feet on it.

Maluma had smiled politely at his comment and made some notes on his tablet. Then his phone started ringing. He excused himself outside to talk, and Balvin hightailed it to the guest bathroom and shut himself in, furiously dialing Nicole.

“Oh no!” she says. “What’s wrong? Salo said he did such a great job on his place in Miami!”

“Yeah, I’m sure he did. He’s very…” Balvin pauses, trying to find the right word to describe Maluma. “...proficient.”

“So what’s the problem then?”

“Nicole, have you seen this guy?”

“Yeah,” she says. “He has his picture on his website. He’s cute, right?”

“He’s cute,” Balvin repeats, dumbfounded. “Yes, he’s cute. He’s _very_ cute, one might even say.”

“Oh my God, Jose,” Nicole says, realization dawning on her. “Get yourself together. Don’t be a weirdo.”

“I’m trying,” Balvin whines. “But he’s so cute.”

Nicole makes an unhappy noise. Balvin is pretty sure she’s rolling her eyes.

“Get it together,” she says again, and then she hangs up on him.

“Jose?”

Balvin hears Maluma calling his name.

“Just a minute,” he yells back.

He splashes some water on his face, then stares in the mirror, willing himself to get his shit together and not accost his employee. He is a grown man. He is the master of his own destiny. He is… taking too long in the bathroom.

He hurries to rejoin Maluma, who is standing by the entryway with his briefcase in one hand.

“Leaving already?” Balvin asks. He didn’t mean to sound so disappointed, and he winces internally at his tone.

But Maluma just smiles at him and says, “don’t worry, I’ll be back for more. Next week good?”

“Same time?” Balvin sounds like a kid eager for an ice cream from the truck. He can’t seem to put a lid on his emotions. It’s appalling.

“Sure,” Maluma says, and he sticks his hand out. “It was great to meet you, Jose. I think this will be a positive experience for both of us.”

“Same,” Balvin says and shakes his hand, managing to let it go after an appropriate number of seconds. “See you next time.”

Maluma leaves, and Balvin is right behind him, going for a very long run to distract himself from thoughts about what kind of “positive experience” he could possibly be having.

―

Maluma shows up early again the next week. His shirt is still inadequately buttoned, Balvin notices.

“Hi,” Maluma says, smiling big.

“Hi,” Balvin says back, wishing he had something witty and charming to say instead.

They sit down on Balvin’s Ikea couch again, and Maluma starts grilling him on his lifestyle.

“I’m really trying to get a feel for you, okay?” Maluma says.

He’s busy with his tablet, but he looks up when Balvin coughs. Balvin wonders if he’s as red as he feels.

“How so?”

Balvin coughs again. Maluma offers him a cough drop, but he declines, shaking his head and willing his blood to flow somewhere else besides his face.

“I need to know how best to utilize your space. So tell me what you do in a day. Do you have a lot of guests coming by? Friends? Family? Girlfriend? Boyfriend?”

Balvin blinks at him.

“Uh,” he says. “Well, sometimes my assistant comes to check on me.”

Maluma nods, tapping with the stylus. He waits for him to continue. Balvin wonders if this is standard procedure, or if he’s reading too much into the fact that Maluma wants to know whether he’s single or not.

“No boyfriend,” he says finally.

“I see,” Maluma says, and he taps some more. Then he turns his tablet around for Balvin to see the blueprints he’s pulled up. “This is your house.”

Balvin looks at his house rendered in 2D. Maluma circles the living room.

“We’re going to start here and build outwards. It’s important to get the energy right so it can radiate positivity to the rest of the house.”

Balvin nods enthusiastically.

“Sounds nice,” he says.

“It will be,” Maluma says.

They spend the rest of the time looking at furniture. Maluma gives him the tablet but hovers over his shoulder as he swipes through dozens of couches. He says it’s a company tablet, and it gets “temperamental” sometimes. Sure enough, the screen freezes up, and Maluma leans in even closer to turn it off and back on again. He doesn’t move much farther away when it reboots, either. Balvin tries very hard to pay attention to the pictures on the screen and not the proximity of Maluma’s body to his own.

He gets through all the couches, and Maluma makes a list of his selected furniture. Then he stands up. Balvin feels chilly all of a sudden.

“This is great,” Maluma says. “You’ve given me a lot to work with. Same time next week?”

Balvin nods and wonders if he should walk Maluma to the door. He decides against it, but Maluma isn’t leaving. He seems to be waiting for something. Balvin stands up, and Maluma starts moving.

“See you next time,” Maluma says with a cheerful wave as they reach the door.

“Looking forward to it,” Balvin says, and his voice trills upwards on the last syllable. He puts his hand over his face once Maluma has gone.

―

Maluma always shows up slightly before nine. The third time, he brings a mock-up of his ideas for Balvin’s living room, and they go over it together. But when they wrap things up, Maluma doesn’t leave like usual. He asks to see Balvin’s backyard, even though that’s not his area of expertise, and that somehow turns into a tour of the whole property.

When he comes the next day, Maluma doesn’t even bother to bring work. He rings the doorbell and marches inside with a box of pastries.

“Hi,” he says. “Something sweet?”

They sit at the kitchen counter. Balvin eats a couple, just to be polite. Maluma eats about half the box and licks the icing off his fingers. Balvin busies himself with his napkin.

“Hey, can I ask you a question?” he asks Maluma when he’s basically shredded the napkin and can no longer use it as a distraction.

“Sure,” Maluma says, polishing off his last sweet. He closes the empty box and looks at Balvin.

“Is your name actually Maluma?”

He laughs.

“No, it’s not. My name is Juan Luis. But you can call me that if you like. You can call me anything you want,” he says, winking, and Balvin dives for the empty pastry box, checking to make sure none have escaped their notice.

The time after that, Maluma takes him out for breakfast. He brings his briefcase with him again, but he doesn’t bother to open it.

“You have a really beautiful house,” Maluma says after their food arrives. He takes a bite of his arepa.

“Uh,” Balvin says. “Thanks?”

He shouldn’t be blushing. Maluma complimented his house, not him. He takes a sip of coffee, hoping the mug is big enough to hide his face.

“Really, I love it. I could spend all day there.”

Balvin doesn’t know what to say to that. His first thought is to invite Maluma to move in, but they’re not really at that stage of their relationship yet. And also that would probably be an ethical violation of whatever contract Nicole signed for him. Keep it professional, Balvin reminds himself. Don’t scare off the hot designer who will make your house look nice.

Maluma looks at him again, and he realizes he hasn’t actually responded.

“You could come by and see it. You know, when you’re done,” he says, and then takes another large sip of coffee.

“Cool,” Maluma says, looking at him, amused.

Balvin feels very hot under his gaze. He drinks more coffee, despite not having swallowed it all the first time. It’s too soon for the caffeine to be making his heart race, isn’t it? He looks into the cup. It’s nearly gone already.

He flags down a server and asks for more coffee. He can’t risk losing his only excuse to cover his face. When the server leaves, Balvin glances back at Maluma, who is still looking at him with amusement.

He says, “I will take you up on that offer, you know. So don’t freak out if I show up at your house.”

Balvin laughs nervously.

“Great,” he says. “I’ll definitely let you inside.”

Then Balvin takes a large bite of his food and tries to chew it as slowly as possible.

―

On Saturday, a crew of movers accompanies Maluma to the house. He does something akin to supervision as they haul the furniture inside. There’s more of it than Balvin was expecting, based on the designs Maluma showed him. It looked pretty bare, but under Maluma’s careful eye, the room comes together in a tastefully decorated, organized way. All the furniture has its place and purpose, and Balvin notices that his new couch is the perfect distance from his new coffee table.

When everything is set up correctly and the last of the movers are heading out, Maluma hangs around. For the first time since Balvin met him, he seems a little awkward.

“Hey,” Maluma says, pulling him aside to sit on the new couch.

“This is great!” Balvin says. He means it, too. “You did a fantastic job.”

“Thank you,” Maluma says, smiling down at his lap. “I wanted to talk to you about that, actually.”

He glances up, making eye contact, and Balvin raises an eyebrow. Maluma sighs.

”I wanted to let you know that my colleague Chan is taking over the project from me. Don’t worry, he’s a genius. But I am no longer your employee.”

Balvin looks at him confused.

“You’re quitting?” He tries not to sound too distressed, but he’s totally blindsided by this. Maybe he scared Maluma off with his sudden inability to regulate his emotions.

”I’m not quitting my job. Just this project. I’m just,” Maluma pauses, thinking, “taking a step back. I need to, uh, protect my job, actually.” He laughs nervously.

Balvin frowns, saying, ”why would you get fired? I’m not firing you. You’re so good at this!”

Maluma glances at him sideways. He is very close to Balvin, closer than they ever were on the Ikea couch, even though the new one is twice as big.

Maluma considers him for a minute before speaking carefully, ”did you think it was normal to spend this long on only one room? For me to ask you if you’re single? To go out for breakfast?”

”I don’t know,” Balvin says nervously.

This feels like a trap. He doesn’t know anything except the fact that Maluma is leaning towards him, getting closer every second.

“I don’t even do furniture anymore.”

Maluma says it as if he was confessing to a murder, staring at him, daring him to react.

“Okay,” he says shakily.

Maluma stares at his mouth, then lets his gaze drop lower until he’s raking his eyes over Balvin’s whole body. Balvin is starting to forget how to breathe.

Then Maluma climbs into his lap, and he remembers, mouth falling open as he gasps. Balvin stares up at him, careful not to touch and shatter the fantasy into a million little pieces. Maluma is smiling, and he wants to smile back, but he can only stare, unbelieving.

“What are you doing?” he whispers, almost afraid to hear the answer.

Maluma runs a hand down the side of his face, cupping his cheek and stroking his thumb over his cheekbone and then downwards, lower, towards his mouth. His thumb brushes over Balvin’s lower lip, and Balvin’s tongue darts out of its own accord. Maluma looks at him sharply. Balvin sucks his thumb into his mouth.

”We’re not supposed to make house calls,” Maluma says, half moaning, half talking. “Everyone else comes to the office.”

“Mmm,” Balvin groans, and he flicks his tongue against the pad of Maluma’s thumb.

”But you,” Maluma says, and Balvin sucks harder, letting his head drop backward. Maluma’s finger slips farther into his mouth, and he whines. “You.”

”Me,” Balvin says as best he can.

”You.”

He bites down, just enough to leave teeth marks around Maluma’s knuckle.

”Fuck.”

Maluma yanks his hand out of Balvin’s mouth and replaces it with his lips. He kisses ferociously, like a man dying of thirst. He sucks his lower lip into his mouth, then sinks his teeth into it, revenge. Balvin whines. He grabs Maluma’s ass, kneading at the muscles under his clothes.

“Why are you so goddamn beautiful?” Balvin says against Maluma’s lips. “Why are you here in my house, looking like you do? You’re not even supposed to be here.”

“I’m doing my job,” Maluma says between furious kisses. He has his hands at the hem of Balvin’s shirt, pulling hard enough to tear.

“No, you’re not. You just told me you quit,” Balvin says once the shirt is off. “You’re here to drive me crazy.”

“Maybe,” Maluma says, and he dives for Balvin’s neck, sucking hard at his pulse point. Balvin arches his back off the couch and smacks a hand down beside his leg. The sound rings loudly through his empty house.

”Maybe,” Maluma says again, licking the mark he left and blowing cool air over it. “Maybe I love seeing how much you want me.”

Balvin groans, out of embarrassment just as much as out of pleasure. Maluma pulls back from sucking on his neck to look at him. Balvin can feel the blush creeping over his face.

“It’s so fucking hot,” Maluma says. “You try to hide it, but you’re hopeless.”

Balvin looks away, but Maluma grabs his jaw, firm, leaving him no room to hide.

”Look at me,” he says.

Balvin obeys, making eye contact even as his face is burning.

”You think I don’t want you just as much?”

Maluma grinds into him, rolling his hips, and Balvin can feel how hard he is, even through his stupid professional pants.

“I’m only here for you.”

Balvin has no words, only primal, animal sounds. He surges forward, kissing Maluma again and ripping off his shirt. The buttons scatter everywhere.

Maluma stands up, dropping the useless fabric on the floor.

“Look at you,” he says, standing between Balvin’s legs.

He traces his finger over Balvin’s stomach, bumping over the muscles in his abdomen. He stops at the waistline of his pants, tucking his fingers under and tugging him closer.

Balvin moans, shifting his hips forward, hard, and Maluma stops touching him, grinning and shaking his head. Balvin groans, reaches out, and catches his wrist, but Maluma grabs him by the forearm instead. He pulls him up to stand.

“Come on, we can’t ruin your new couch on the first day.”

Maluma takes his hand, and he starts walking.

“Fuck the couch,” Balvin says, but he follows Maluma anyway.

“Why would you do that,” Maluma says over his shoulder, “when you can fuck me instead?”

That momentarily short circuits Balvin’s brain, and so he blindly follows Maluma’s lead. Then he realizes that Maluma, who definitely knows where the bedroom is because he has blueprints of the entire house, is taking a detour towards the foyer.

“Grab that,” Maluma says, pointing at his briefcase.

Balvin picks it up and peeks inside, curious as to what is so important that it couldn’t wait. The briefcase is stuffed full of condoms and lube. Balvin laughs. Maluma turns and winks at him, and they hurry towards the bedroom.

“Have you been bringing this over every time?” he asks as Maluma pushes him onto the bed. “Are you even an interior decorator?”

“No,” Maluma says, and he climbs up next to him. “I told you, I don’t do furniture anymore. Take your pants off now.”

“Okay, bossy,” Balvin says, laughing a little as he does what he’s told. “What happened to ‘the customer is always right’?”

“You’re not my customer anymore. Also, shut up. You’re going to do what I tell you to.”

The words send a jolt straight to his dick, so Balvin stops talking. Maluma rolls on top, grinding into him, and Balvin bites the inner part of his lip, not sure if he’s allowed to make noise.

Maluma works his way down, kissing over his ribs to the sensitive skin on his right side. He runs his fingers, feather-light, over his oblique, and Balvin squirms, ticklish. He hooks his fingers under the waistband of Balvin’s underwear and yanks them off.

Maluma settles himself in between Balvin’s legs, looking up at him. He braces his hands on his thighs, weighing him down, then leans in close, lips just barely brushing over the head of his cock. It’s the worst kiss of Balvin’s life, aggravating, frustrating, and he whines, low and thin. He tries to buck his hips, but Maluma has him pinned down well.

Maluma shakes his head, smirking, and Balvin sighs. But he stops trying to fight, deflates and submits to Maluma’s pacing, and he’s rewarded with Maluma’s tongue swiping up and down and back up, achingly slowly. Then he traces it around the head of his cock in a circle, and Balvin grabs at the sheets. Maluma sucks once, hard, then pulls off with an obscenely loud pop.

Maluma looks down at him, surveying him like Balvin imagines he does his interior designs. Balvin certainly feels he’s being scrutinized, laid bare for Maluma to go to work on.

“You’re doing good,” Maluma says, and it makes Balvin blush.

He tries to sit up, maybe to drain the blood out of his face, and this time Maluma lets him. He runs a hand tentatively through Maluma’s hair, and Maluma looks at him.

“Pull my hair while I suck your dick.”

He says it so nonchalantly, right before he swallows Balvin all the way down. Balvin can feel his dick hitting the back of Maluma’s throat, and he moans, loudly. He can’t help it. His eyes roll back as he grabs at the nape of Maluma’s neck just to have something to hold onto, to keep from floating away.

Maluma bobs up and down a few times, relaxed, taking him into his throat, and Balvin lets out a string of obscenities because there’s really no better way to express how fucking good it feels. Maluma didn’t specify for how long he had to shut up.

Maluma takes his hand, and Balvin thinks maybe he’s in trouble, but he just moves it to the top of his head where his hair is longer. He pulls on his hair again, and when Maluma moans, he can feel the vibrations around his dick.

“Fuck,” he says. “You gotta stop.”

Maluma does, but not before he swirls his tongue around one last time, heavy and wet on the head of his cock. Balvin fists his hand in the sheets because if he grabs Maluma’s hair, he’ll tear it out.

“Fuck,” he says again, louder.

“Yeah, yeah, we’re getting to that.”

Maluma crawls farther up the bed. He manages to look not only coordinated but also sexy doing it, and Balvin watches his ass, transfixed, until Maluma orders him to go get the briefcase.

He feels much less elegant than Maluma as he dangles off the edge of the bed, swiping at the briefcase that’s just out of reach. Finally, he gives up and goes to grab it, tossing it next to Maluma and waiting for further instructions.

“Come here.”

Maluma sets the briefcase aside and pulls him down to kiss. He’s all tongue, sloppy and needy, rolling his hips upward at the same time. He makes a lot of noise, not loud, but tantalizing, motivating. Balvin wants to find out all the different sounds he’ll make. So far, he’s discovered that Maluma’s breath hitches when he bites at the hollow of his throat, and that he moans so perfectly when he presses down on his hip, nail leaving a little crescent-shaped mark in his skin.

His favorite sound by far, though, is when he reaches in between them, grabbing Maluma’s cock in his hand, stroking the hot, smooth skin.

“Nngh,” Maluma moans softly in his ear.

Balvin gets a rhythm going, Maluma’s hips stuttering upwards to meet his hand, and he’s starting to think they might not even need the lube after all. But then Maluma stops him, moving his hand away from his dick, and pouring a generous amount of lube into his palm. Balvin looks at him, pupils blown and lips swollen, and tries really hard not to come.

“Fuck me,” he says, and Balvin tries even harder.

“God,” he says in a long, deep groan. “Yes.”

He takes his time, opens Maluma up slowly until he’s not quiet anymore, until he’s cursing and cursing Balvin, eyes rolling back and hips thrusting helplessly upwards. Balvin kind of likes this brief interlude where he has control. It’s short-lived, though. Maluma starts throwing condoms at his head, and he gets the message.

He catches one and tears it open, rolling it onto his dick. He lines himself up and pauses to look at Maluma, who is watching him intently, mouth slightly open.

“Fuck me good,” he says, and Balvin has to close his eyes as he slides into Maluma, who is hot and tight and incredible.

Balvin does his best to follow orders. He fucks Maluma slowly at first, carefully, watching closely for any signs of hurt. But it’s just lust painted across his face. His lips are parted, moaning, and his hair is starting to stick to his forehead. Balvin brushes it out of the way, then runs a hand across his cheek, feeling the bones of his face and thinking how beautifully made he is. He reaches down to kiss Maluma gently.

This close, Balvin can hear all the little sounds he makes, most importantly, the way he says “harder” into his neck.

He picks up the pace, thrusting his hips faster and faster. Maluma rakes a hand down his side, a bright, sharp, feeling he can’t identify as pain or pleasure. He moans, deep in his throat, and Maluma wraps a leg around his back, digging his heel in and pulling him in closer. They are almost chest to chest. Balvin stares down at Maluma who has his head thrown back, panting. Then he closes his eyes, concentrating on how good Maluma feels.

“Tell me, is this what you wanted?”

Balvin’s eyes fly open.

“Yes,” he says, not even sure what the question is referring to.

“Is this what you wanted when I first came over to your house?”

Balvin nods furiously, trying to multitask, to make his brain do three things at once when all he really wants to do is come.

“Tell me what you wanted to do to me then.”

“Oh,” he whimpers. This is too much. But Maluma snaps his fingers, and Balvin manages to articulate something like intelligible thoughts. “This. I wanted this. I wanted you.”

“Just like this? Or did you want to bend me over the arm of the couch?”

“Mmm,” Balvin whines, head filled with images of Maluma doing exactly that. “Yes, God, you’d look so good like that, waiting for me.”

“Waiting for you to what?”

“To make you scream my name.”

Balvin doesn’t know where that came from, but he knows it’s the truth once the words are out of his mouth. He groans, embarrassed, but he’s quickly distracted, his attention caught by Maluma, who has started touching himself, jerking off to the rhythms of his thrusts.

“Jose,” Maluma moans, loudly, and Balvin almost wants to die, but not more than he wants to see this through. He has Maluma moaning his name, fucking himself on his cock, and about to come, if the way his stomach tenses up is any indication.

“Jose.”

The moaning gets louder, and Maluma goes taut like a bow as Balvin angles his hips correctly, finding the right spot to hit.

He grabs Maluma’s hips, holding him in place as he starts to come apart. His mouth is open and his eyes are rolled back. He looks like art, the subject of a Renaissance painting, with his limbs flung outwards in total surrender.

He moans “Jose!” again, breathlessly, gasping, as he comes, spilling hot all over his stomach. Balvin fucks him through his orgasm, and then, like an aftershock radiating from the epicenter of an earthquake, Balvin follows, coming so hard he thinks maybe the earth does move, at least a little bit.

―

Afterward, when they’re cleaned up and clothed, Balvin sits with Maluma on the new couch again, wedged into the corner as Maluma leans against his chest. Maluma is supposed to have left already, but they kept finding excuses to linger. Finally, Balvin gave up the farce and pulled Maluma in to cuddle.

“So,” he says, arms wrapped around Maluma, playing with the undone buttons on the shirt he lent him. “You’re not my designer anymore.”

Maluma laughs quietly. “I guess not.”

“I liked having you around. I’m sad you’re quitting.”

“Well, you did invite me to come see the finished project.”

Balvin smiles, even though he knows Maluma can't see it, then says, “maybe you should come by while it’s still in progress. You know, check up on things?”

Maluma turns around to look at him. “Yes,” he says simply. Balvin lets his hands lie flat on Maluma’s chest, not sure what else to say. Then Maluma breaks into a grin. “Of course I’ll be around. We’re going to have a lot of furniture to break in.”

Balvin rolls his eyes, but he can’t help smiling as well, and he pulls Maluma in to kiss. They stay kissing on the couch for a long time, until Maluma excuses himself, apologizing and saying he really does need to get going. Balvin walks him to the door, and they linger a while longer. When Maluma finally opens the door, he just about hits Nicole with it.

”Hello!” she says as cheerfully as someone who almost got hit in the face can say. “You must be Juan Luis. I’m Nicole, Jose’s assistant. Nice to meet you in person.”

She sticks her hand out to shake, and Maluma shakes it, looking a little confused but smiling nonetheless. Balvin winces as he realizes he forgot he’d invited Nicole over to see the finished living room.

”Hi Nicole,” he says sheepishly. “Sorry, I, uh, forgot.”

”Yes,” she says, clearly amused. “It’s okay. I can come back another time.”

”Don’t worry about me,” Maluma says. “I was just leaving.”

”No, wait,” Nicole says. “I’m glad I caught you here.”

Balvin’s eyes widen at the word “caught.” He looks at Maluma. The beginning of a blush is starting to creep in around his cheeks.

”Hmm?” Maluma says, trying to play it off.

”I got an email this morning that you’re not working for us anymore. Is everything alright?”

“Oh,” Maluma says. “I’m letting my colleague take over. Everything’s fine, just, uh, pursuing other avenues.”

He shifts his weight from foot to foot, glancing at Balvin.

“Good,” Nicole says emphatically. “No sexual harassment lawsuits for me to deal with.”

Maluma’s mouth starts to drop open, but he snaps it shut.

”Okay,” Balvin interjects, ushering Nicole inside. He turns back to Maluma. “Great of you to come by. I’ll call you?”

“Yeah, please do,” Maluma says, still looking a little pink. He turns to leave, but before he does, he kisses Balvin on the cheek. Then he walks quickly out the door.

”Nice shirt,” Nicole yells before he’s out of hearing range. “Looks good on you!”

She turns her attention to Balvin once Maluma is gone.

”So―” she starts, but Balvin cuts her off.

“We figured out how to work together. I don’t want to talk about it.”

Nicole puts her hands up in the air, shaking her head, and says “whatever gets that old couch out of your house.”

**Author's Note:**

> [Accompanying artwork ](https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EeXbGHzXkAAfu0j?format=jpg&name=small) by the incredibly talented [Itzel,](https://www.instagram.com/balumalove/) to whom I am eternally grateful. Please go support them in their artistic endeavors! 
> 
> Title from Kid Cudi. Literally this whole fic was inspired by half a line off of "By Design." The thought process went something like: "Don't fuck with the fengshui" would make a good title → Maluma is an interior designer → There's no way I can come up with a plot → Pornography.


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